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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451907">Roof</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk'>fraisemilk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Onomatopoeia [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gintama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, Rewriting of another fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:28:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His head is a hurricane. He opens glued eyes and sees a roof. There is no hole in this one. It isn’t broken or burned down.<br/>And he thinks: how odd it is to feel warmth again.<br/>____<br/>Otose finds Gintoki, and Gintoki finds Otose.<br/>(Rewriting of "Roots", written in 2014)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Otose | Terada Ayano &amp; Sakata Gintoki</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Onomatopoeia [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/237036</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Roof</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394170">Roots</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk">fraisemilk</a>.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes the shape of roots. Digging in the tree’s blue shade, using his hands and his knees, tasting copper and smelling wood, he finds one and then so many he gets lost in their numbers. Some crumble in his fingers, as if awaiting the palms of his hands to finally, finally become part of the earth. Others seem so strong, so immutable, as they burrow deeper in time -- those are older than the tree’s brown leaves, older than its trunk. He has to make another hole next to this one, because he cannot reach any deeper.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The boy whimpers, casting bad spells under his breath. The characteristics of war are written on his pale face – fear and anger, hunger and hope alternate there on his brow, as his body writhes in despair. Fever dreams make him shiver and shake and call out the names of people she guesses are long dead. It is obvious, from the scars on his back and the thinness of his wrists, that he has been alone for a long time.</p>
<p>She spends the night at his side, refreshing his burning cheeks with cold water when the infection that burns through his blood makes him choke back sobs, hugging him to envelop him in her warmth when he shakes so much she could almost hear his bones clatter.</p>
<p>Sometimes he clutches her hands as if to protect himself; other times he grips her forearm like any child would his mother’s.</p>
<p>His breathing deepens as dawn breaks. He’s exhausted. She is too, but the sight of his disheveled white hair, of the dark bruising on his cheeks, arouses old memories. And so she stays, guarding him, covering him with more layers of blankets.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>When he raises his head, lost in the deep hole of mud and roots, he sees that the tree does not hide the sun anymore; it seems older, towering with difficulty over him, similar to a human spine. Its trunk is gray, almost white in the cold light of winter, and seems to flinch in the cold wind. The once strong roots crumble in his little hands to nourish a barren earth. And so he sits in the tree’s grave, watches the sun rise and fall.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>His head is a hurricane. He opens glued eyes and sees a roof. There is no hole in this one. It isn’t broken or burned down. He cannot move under the numerous covers piled over his body – it feels so warm he doesn’t even <em>want</em> to move. Right next to him, an old woman sleeps, still sitting. Her head lolls to the side each time she breathes; one of her hands rests on her lap, worn and golden like a sunray.</p>
<p>How odd it is, to feel warmth once again.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He learns the sun’s precise trajectory in the sky; sleeps only when the moon is high. The tree’s life slows down, and then stops. He is alone in a gap, earth taking the form of creeping shadows. He gets up, climbs up and gets out of the hole. In the cricket’s quiet song, he walks.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He wakes up again. This time the old woman is not there. He closes his eyes. He is so warm here.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><em>The beauty and the beast</em>. What a strange pair they make. She wonders which of them is the beauty, and which of them is the beast. Maybe they are both beasts. Maybe they’re both trying to find the beauty.</p>
<p>For weeks they sleep in the same room; not because there’s not enough place in the house, but because the need of hearing someone breathe is haunting them both. When his dreams are too cruel, she simply starts to talk, describing mundane things, life in Edo, the fur of the neighbor’s cat – she lulls him back to sleep with sweet nothings, because she knows this reality is what he lacks now. One night he starts whispering too, depicting a tree’s shape, explains how leaves can change color when it is so cold your fingers start becoming blue. His descriptions are so precise she almost asks how much time he has spent just watching the tree, decomposing the sight, reflecting on each effect the wind could have, each smell the rotting leaves gave to the earth. She sleeps and dreams of trees and crows, of holes dug right next to a fullmoon maple.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He dreams of a tree. There is a leaf on it. This time, he will not need to dig.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes the shape of roots; they appear where he isn’t looking, under his foots, right under the sun’s nose and the moon’s eyes, to replace old ones and settle deep inside the earth’s warm soil.</p>
<p>It takes the shape of roots. Being no longer alone and suddenly breathing in again, waking up in the middle of the night next to someone else, under a roof.</p>
<p>Gintoki and Otose sleep. In their intertwined dreams, a bar reopens and fills with drunkards and a new family. </p>
<p>It takes the shape of roots. And on the tree, buds open for baby green leaves.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, I am guessing a lot of people are going a little crazy with the lockdown! I'm dealing with it however I can, that is by rewriting this fic which has gotten a lot of kudos recently, but that I can't read without feeling irritated. It's six years old after all! My English is a little better now, I think. Take care,<br/>Lise</p>
<p>PS. Lockdown also means reading more fics and writing more comments. lol jk!! unless... ;)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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